No Woman So Fair

by Gilbert, Morris

  When he arrived at the goddess Ishtar, he prostrated himself before the statue, which was made in the form of a beautiful woman wearing a clinging robe, with eyes wide and staring. Abram began praying vehemently.

  Two men approached, one wearing the garments of a high order of the priesthood. His name was Rahaz, the high priest of the temple. No more than medium height, he was vastly overweight. Even at the age of sixty there were no lines in his face, which was as smooth as marble. He was completely bald, and his skin glowed with the oil he had anointed himself with. Though not attractive, he had an authority about him. He stopped, as did the priest by his side—a tall, thin man with a name as short as he was tall, Huz.

  “Master,” Huz said, “he’s here again.”

  “Yes, I see him.” Rahaz was gazing steadfastly at the prostrate Abram. He listened as the young man cried out loudly to the goddess and examined the worshiper as if he were a rare insect. Indeed, Rahaz had come to consider most of the populace who dwelt in Ur and the farms roundabout as nothing more than insects. Earlier in his life he had known human compassion, but he had lost that virtue along the way as he had become more and more entrenched in the despicable life of the temple priesthood. The generous offerings given to the temple granaries had made religion powerful and persuasive, a power that mostly benefited the priests and their temples. For the people who faithfully brought their oblations, the religion of Ur offered no hope of freedom from their servile existence. According to the generally accepted story of creation, the gods had fashioned people out of clay for the sole purpose of using them as slaves. Anyone who failed to appease these deities with offerings would be subject to catastrophes, such as floods or pestilences or raids by neighboring tribes. Such calamities frequently did occur, and Rahaz was always happy when they did. It meant that the people would bring even more offerings to increase the wealth of his kind.

  Huz shook his head. “He stayed here through most of the night yesterday.”

  “Yes, I saw him.”

  “I wish,” Huz said thoughtfully, “that everyone in our city were as devout as Abram.”

  Rahaz, however, did not smile. “He’s not content with worshiping our gods. Three thousand gods are not enough for him.”

  Huz was shocked. He had never heard of such a thing. Most people complained that there were too many gods. “I can’t believe that, sire!” he exclaimed. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “He wants more.”

  “More of what, master?”

  “Fanatics never know what they want.” Rahaz bit off his words. “He wants what he can’t have. A god all his own, I suspect. His grandfather was exactly like him. Nahor—he was before your time.”

  “I thought Nahor was one of Abram’s brothers.”

  “Yes, Abram has a brother with the same name as their grandfather. But it is Abram who is more like the grandfather. Always asking questions. Demanding answers. He’s got the same hunger inside.”

  “Hunger for what?”

  “Hunger for the gods, of course.”

  “But isn’t that a good thing, master?”

  “It ought to be, but it causes trouble for us. What we want are people who will bring their offerings, worship one of the gods—whichever one pleases them—and keep their mouths shut.”

  Huz was shocked. “I don’t understand, sire.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  Abram had heard none of this conversation as he worshiped before the goddess Ishtar. But now as he rose and turned to leave, he saw the two priests. He smiled and rushed over to them. “Master, it’s good to see you. Do you have time to answer some questions? I have several.”

  “Greetings, Abram. I suppose I can spare a moment.” He nodded to Huz, who scurried off at the unspoken command. Rahaz turned to Abram and thought carefully. The family of Terah was wealthy and powerful and needed to be appeased. “Come along,” he said. “It’s good to see you in the temple again, but I must warn you, I don’t have a great deal of time.”

  Rahaz led Abram through a maze of corridors until he finally stopped and waved toward a seat in a pleasant room filled with comfortable furnishings. The room was located on one of the outer walls of the ziggurat, and an open window allowed in sunlight and air. A female slave, one of the temple prostitutes, entered the room at once and smiled brilliantly at Abram, who averted his eyes uneasily at her brazen stare. Rahaz jumped in briskly. “Bring us some wine, girl.” Lowering his heavy body into a chair, he turned to Abram as she left and asked, “Will you have something to eat?”

  “No, thank you, master. But I do have some questions. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things while out tending my sheep.”

  “I’ll wager you have.” Rahaz’s lips curled in an indulgent smile. “What is your question?”

  “I’ve been wondering. When a man commits a wrong, does it matter which one of the gods he confesses it to?”

  It was a question most dwellers of Ur would never think to ask. Rahaz cleared his throat and replied, “The important thing is to bring an offering and make your confession. If you feel no assurance from confessing to one of the gods, then perhaps you’ve found the wrong god. Go to another. If necessary, come to me, and I’ll give you instruction.”

  Abram studied the face of the fat priest. The answer did not satisfy him, but he left that one and went on. “How do the gods know when a man has done wrong? The gods are here in the temple, but I’m out in the field alone. If I wrong my brother, the gods would not know it, would they?”

  Inwardly Rahaz struggled for an answer to the young man’s question. He studied him carefully, noting that he was taller than most men, with a strong, athletic figure. Abram was quite handsome, he decided, with deep-set brown eyes. He had a wide mouth that was tough yet could show tenderness. His prominent nose and high cheekbones gave him a noble look. He wore an ill-trimmed short beard, and when he spoke he often waved his hands in sweeping gestures.

  Finally Rahaz heaved himself out of his chair and said, “There is much about the gods that we cannot know, young Abram. Our job is simply to make our sacrifices and offerings so that we might hope to find favor with them. I must go now. We will have another one of these talks later.”

  Abram jumped up and followed the priest to the door. “But, master, I have not yet asked the most important question. I want to know what happens to a man when he dies—and another thing. Do any of the gods ever speak to you?”

  Rahaz turned and glared at the young man. “Speak to me? What do you mean?”

  “I mean you and I can speak to each other, but do Enki or Nanna ever speak to you as I am doing now?”

  “Why, of course not!” Rahaz’s corpulent face twisted in a scowl at the rash question. “Why would the gods want to speak to a man? Look, my son, I must caution you. These questions are fruitless. They’re not going to profit you. Your father has come to see me more than once. He thinks you ought to marry and settle down. You must learn to live in the real world. You trouble yourself needlessly with these questions about the gods.”

  Abram stared at the priest, his face troubled. “But aren’t we supposed to think about them?”

  “Let me do the thinking for you, my son. You go along now. Leave your offering. On your next visit, bring payment for a meeting with one of our temple prostitutes, who can lead you into a closer spiritual encounter with Ishtar. Perhaps then the goddess might be more willing to grant you a fertile wife. For now, say your prayers, and let the other priests and me worry over how best to please the gods.”

  Abram nodded and sighed. “Yes, master, as you say.” But in his heart, Abram knew he would not obey Rahaz’s instruction to meet with a temple prostitute. For reasons he could not fully explain to himself or to anyone else, Abram found this aspect of temple worship most distasteful and would have nothing to do with it. Yet he felt drawn to this sacred place that was set apart for worship. His visits, however, never left him satisfied. Rather, they raised more questions every time he came.

>   Rahaz stood aside to allow the tall young man to leave the room, then shook his head, grumbling, “He is indeed a troublemaker, that one. He must think he’s better than other men, but we can change that. I’ll have a talk with his father. Terah needs to sit down hard on Abram, or he’ll turn out just like his grandfather Nahor!”

  ****

  Metura took one look at Terah’s expression and knew at once that her husband was troubled. He had never been skillful at concealing his feelings. She watched as their slave girl set his food before him and then asked with concern, “Is something bothering you, dear?”

  Terah stared at his wife. A small woman in frail health, she had borne him three fine sons and was totally obedient to his will. He had wished at times that he might have married a stronger woman to have more sons, but in most respects he was pleased with her as a wife. “I’m worried about Abram,” he told her.

  “Why, what’s wrong with him?” Metura asked uneasily. Of her three sons, Abram was the most like her. He had her gentleness, an attribute one did not see in Nahor or Haran, and like her, he also enjoyed solitude and was a dreamer of sorts. “What’s wrong with him? He’s not sick, I hope.”

  “Only sick in the head,” Terah snapped. He picked up a portion of meat, ripped it apart with his fingers, and began stuffing it into his mouth. He chewed hurriedly, bolting his food like a hungry animal. “He left the flocks to go to the temple again. That’s all he’s interested in.”

  “Well, I’m glad he’s religious.”

  “There’s such a thing as being too religious,” Terah grunted. He picked up a cup, drained the last of the wine, and rapped the table impatiently until the slave girl came and refilled it. He drank again and slammed the cup down with unnecessary force. “He’s got to grow up, Metura.”

  He would have said more, but at that moment Abram entered the room. He had just washed, and his face glowed as he greeted his parents. “Good morning, Father.” He came over and kissed Metura. “Good morning, Mother. You’re looking well today.”

  As Abram took his place and accepted the food that the slave girl brought, Terah studied his son. He could see traces of Metura in Abram’s features—not that he was in the least feminine. Still, there was a tenderness about his eyes and mouth that men should not have. Terah certainly did not have it, nor did Abram’s brothers. He considered tenderness a valuable virtue for women but not worth anything in the character of a man. As Abram ate his meal, Terah thought about his youngest son. He’s got to learn. He can’t go on for the rest of his life praying in temples. A man’s got to be a man. Aloud he said, “I’m going to talk to you, son, as straight as I know how.”

  Abram looked up with surprise. “Why, yes, Father. What is it?” He knew what was coming, for he had heard it before, but he let nothing show in his face.

  “You left the flocks yesterday to go to the temple, and the day before that.”

  “Yes, I did, Father. And I’m going back today.”

  Terah leaned forward and put his hands flat on the table. “Son, I’ve tried to talk to you before about this, but evidently you’ve got a hearing problem.”

  “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “Look, I’m not saying anything against religion. Why, I’ve got religion myself. I make my offerings when it’s convenient, but I don’t go running to the temple every day. There is no need for that. You’re losing your balance over this, son. You’ve got to put religion in its proper place. There’s nothing wrong with washing your face occasionally, but if you start washing it every day, or five times a day, people will think you’ve lost your mind. Too much washing is worse than none at all. And too much religion is worse than none at all.”

  “I’m not sure I agree with that, Father. With all due respect, of course.”

  “What don’t you agree with me about? The washing?”

  “Oh, you’re probably right about that, but not about religion. It seems to me that religion is the most important thing there is.”

  “More important than making a living? Son, I’m surprised at you!” To hear such words was heresy to Terah. He had not realized his son had sunk to such depths. “A man’s first business is to make a living. To marry and have children. A family is what’s important, son. We keep religion in its place. We pay enough in offerings so that we can ward off plagues and droughts and floods, but you can’t go around praying nonstop.”

  “I don’t think that’s what I do, Father.”

  “You go almost every day to that temple! And you’re driving the priest crazy with your questions. Why can’t you just be normal like the rest of us?” Terah’s tone had taken on a strange pleading quality.

  Metura stared at him, for she was more accustomed to his lashing out than begging his children to reason with him. Why, he’s afraid of Abram, she thought with a shock. His own child! It was an insight that had never occurred to her before, and she could not understand it.

  Terah was surprised at himself too. He was accustomed to speaking, then having his word obeyed, but something about his youngest son intimidated him, though he had never before allowed it to show. The same thing had been true of his father, Nahor. He remembered well his father’s eyes—how they appeared to burn at times, clear down into Terah’s heart. The old man had seemed to know what Terah was thinking, and this had frightened him. He now saw some of this in Abram and covered up his feelings by insisting, “You’ve got to get over this, son. You know what happened to my own father, Nahor. Why, he went crazy over religion.”

  “I barely remember him, Father. I was just a child when I last saw him, but I do remember his kindness.”

  “Oh, he was kind, all right.” Terah nodded. “I’m not saying anything against him. Up until he got mixed up with the temple and the priests, he was as good a man as you ever saw. Took care of his family. Took care of his business. But then he started hearing voices.”

  Instantly Abram stared at his father. “You never told me that before!” he exclaimed. “What kind of voices?”

  Realizing he had made a mistake, Terah threw up his hands and said, “Who knows? They were all in his head.”

  “But what did he say?” Abram insisted. “I must know.”

  When Terah clamped his lips tight and turned away, Metura interjected quietly, “He said he heard a god whispering to him. He spoke to me about it often before he left.”

  Abram turned to his mother, his face animated. “What god did he hear?”

  “I never quite understood that.” Metura shrugged her shoulders. “But he was a good man. One of the best I’ve ever known.”

  Terah shook his head furiously. “He was good only until he went crazy!”

  “But what did he do?” Abram asked anxiously.

  “The same thing you’ve been doing. He went around asking the priests questions that no man needs to pry into. And the local gods weren’t good enough for him. Oh no. Of course we’ve got several thousand gods, but he had to have his own!” Terah’s mouth twisted with bitterness at the painful memory. He ran his hand through his thick hair and pulled at it in despair. “You know what he wanted? I can hardly believe I’m telling you this.”

  “What was it he wanted, Father?”

  “He wanted this god of his to talk to him face-to-face. Now, you can’t get any crazier than that!”

  Abram sat rigid. He recalled his question to the high priest—“Do any of the gods ever speak to you?”—and how Rahaz had denied such a thing. And now to learn that his own grandfather had heard the voice of a god. He started to ask another question, but Terah got up and paced the floor angrily. “Finally he went completely mad,” he said. “He started making trips.”

  “Trips to where?” Abram asked.

  “To the cities around here. He went to the temples of all the gods looking for the one who had spoken to him—or so he said. The trips kept getting longer, and he kept staying away, until finally he stayed for months. And then”—Terah’s face twisted in shame at the memory—“he went away, and he never c
ame back. A fine father he was!” Bitterness glittered in Terah’s eyes, and he stared at Abram with accusation in his manner. “And you’re getting to be just like him.”

  Abram sat quietly listening as Terah paced back and forth, spewing bitter diatribes against his father, Nahor. After venting his anger, Terah faced his son and declared, “I’ll have no more of this craziness, Abram. I’ve made a plan for you.”

  “A plan? What sort of plan?” Abram asked with apprehension. He was not particularly happy about his present life, but he knew that his father was capable of launching him into a life he would like even less. More than once Terah had suggested that Abram help his brother Haran with his business in the city of Ur. Abram hated business, much preferring to be out with the flocks, but he understood that his father wanted him in town where he could be more easily controlled.

  “I’ll have no more of your craziness,” Terah repeated. “You’re going to get married and have a family. You’re going to settle down like your brothers and live a normal life.”

  “Well, I will one day, of course, Father.” Abram hoped to appease his father with such a promise, but Terah was well beyond that.

  “Not one day. Now! And I’ve got the woman picked out.” Then Terah hesitated, seeming unsure of himself. “She…she’s a relative.”

  “A relative?” Abram asked. “What sort of relative?”

  “Oh, that’s not important. Her family owns homes in Ur and Uruk. We’ve been doing business with her brother, Garai. It’ll be a good thing for both families, this marriage.” He cheered up at the thought. “We can expand our trading venture. Garai owns many boats, and we’ll send them up and down the river trading.”

  “But what about the woman?” Metura asked nervously. “What sort of woman is she?”

  “Her name is Sarai,” Terah said. “She’ll bring a fine dowry.”

  Abram was appalled. He had not expected this! “But that does not answer Mother’s question. I must know too—what kind of a woman is she?”

  “The kind who’ll be a good wife.” Terah nodded vigorously. “Of course, she’ll need a firm hand—like all women.”